


The Cleverness of Women

by Quipxotic



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ficlet, Fix-It, Gap Filler, Gen, Letters, Movie: A Game of Shadows, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-02-01 11:34:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12704202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quipxotic/pseuds/Quipxotic
Summary: There’s been a death in one of the most popular restaurants in London. Or has there?





	1. Nine Lives

**Author's Note:**

> This has probably been done before, but I've purposely not gone through the fandom to check. There are also probably a million factual and historical inaccuracies in this, but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

“So what do you think of all this?”

Cyrus Allen took a long drag on his cigar and blew it out slowly, savoring it. He regarded his friend Isaac Leech sagely through the smoke. “What? Some rich old geezer paying all the staff and customers to leave while he has a bit of a brush with his lady friend?” He shrugged. “Not a bad idea if you’ve got the coin for it.” 

“It’s just a bit…strange, in’t?” Isaac glanced surreptitiously inside the restaurant but soon gave up. They couldn’t see the main dining room from the back alley where they and some of the other staff were waiting. “And then there’s what Margret said about the lady looking frightened-”

The other man dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. “Maybe she was just surprised? Or maybe Margaret’s seeing things?” He started to say more but caught sight of something past Isaac’s head. “Look lively, it’s Daniels.”

Mr. Daniels, the restaurant’s proprietor, hurried toward them, while periodically glancing over his shoulder. Once he reached the doorway he regained his outward composure, but his eyes still darted nervously around the alley. “I need you two to come with me quickly and quietly. No fuss, you understand?” Daniels lowered his voice further. “There’s been…an accident.” Ushering the men inside, he spoke more loudly for the benefit of the other staff. “Nothing to worry about, just some clean-up to do after the private party. I’ll be back to let you know when to return to work.” 

“Take your time,” one of the waiters chuckled. “I could get used to being paid to stand around doing nothing.” 

Daniels smiled wanly at the remark and the general mumble of approval that followed. Then he swiftly closed the door behind him. Leading the way through the kitchen, he bustled past the curtain to the main dining room and through the maze of tables and partitions. Finally he stopped and gestured apprehensively at the body of a well-dressed young woman lying crumpled on the floor. She’d evidently fallen against a nearby table, which had tipped over. The tablecloth covered part of her lower legs and the tea service lay strewn on top of and round her, mostly unbroken.

Isaac and Cyrus were following a few steps behind Daniels and almost tripped over each other in their surprise.

“Is that,” Isaac began, hesitantly. “Is she…dead?”

“A sudden…illness, it seems.” Daniels seemed somewhat unconvinced by this statement. He swallowed hard and continued with more confidence. “But I can’t have her discovered here. Imagine the scandal! It could shut us down for weeks-“

Cyrus nodded and stowed his cigar away. “So what do you want from us?”

“Take her to the basement and then, once all the staff are back inside, smuggle her out somewhere away from the building.”

Isaac looked horrified. “And do what with her?”

“I don’t know! Leave her somewhere. She’ll be found eventually and it’s not like anything worse can happen to her, she’s already dead.”

“What about the gentlemen…the ones who were with her?”

“Needless to say, they don’t wish to be involved with this matter either.” Daniels cleared his throat. “You will, of course, be compensated for your time an efforts.”

Isaac tried to protest further but Cyrus stopped him. “How much?” he asked, eyes twinkling.

——

Getting the body to the basement wasn’t as easy as they had expected. Although the lady herself was fairly light, her dress and bustle were very full and made moving her through doors cumbersome. 

Cyrus dropped the body’s legs with a sigh of relief. “How do this lot manage all day with this much extra kit on?” 

Isaac lowered the woman’s head and shoulders much more gently. “Shouldn’t we cover her?”

“Why bother? She won’t be here long.” Dropping to his knees, he began searching her clothes. Finally he found what he was looking for and withdrew a pocket that had been attached to her waist. “Now, let’s see what we have.”

“You can’t take that, it’s stealing?”

“She’s dead, what does she care?” He opened the bag and rummaged inside. “Some papers here.” Turning his back on the body, he walked toward the light filtering through the door to the kitchen so that he could read the documents. “Irene Adler. American.” He made a face stuffed the document back into the bag as he shifted his focus to the other contents. “Ah-hah,” he said at last, grinning as he pulled out a coin purse. “That’s more like it!”

“Put it back, Cyrus,” Isaac said worriedly, joining him at the door to the kitchen. “You can’t go stealing from a corpse, it’s…it’s against all that’s right and decent.”

“Pah. If we don’t take it, some other bloke will.” Pocketing the money, he continued looking through the bag. 

“What do you think really happened to her?”

“It’s not sickness, I can tell you that.” Cyrus snorted. “I can tell you something else for nothing, Old Daniels doesn’t believe that either. That rich man did her in somehow.”

“But there’s no marks, just some blood on her lips.”

“Poison then, inn’t? No wonder Daniels don’t want folk to know. Can you imagine what’d happen if the high and mighty start thinking the tea and whatnot have been poisoned?” 

“But, then it’s murder!” Isaac shifted nervously. “What if the peelers find us moving her? They might think we killed her?” 

“Best not get caught then?” There was a knock on the door. “That’s our signal. Time to go my lass.” 

They both turned and walked to the back of the cellar where they’d left the body, but all they found were some boot prints and disturbances in the dirt floor.

For a moment they both stared at where the woman’s body should have been, saying nothing. Finally, Cyrus whistled. “Well, that makes everything a lot easier.”

“But where is she?”

“Scampered out the back, didn’t she?” He walked carefully up the steps and pushed on the rear door which swung open soundlessly. “There. Ya see?”

“So she wasn’t dead.”

“You better hope not or else the end times have come and the dead are walking.” 

“Where’d she get to then?” Isaac asked, joining his friend and looking around the alley. 

“Away from here. Like as not she doesn’t want the two gentlemen she was with to know she’s still kickin’.” 

“I guess this means we need to give the money back to Daniels?”

“The blazes it does!” Cyrus grinned at Isaac. “Only the two of us know what’s happened. If we walk down a few blocks and come back later, he’ll be none the wiser.”

“But-“

“But what? You’ve been worried about being pinched for murder or causing some harm to the poor lass. Well she’s fine and we’re a bit richer.” Retreating back down the steps, he opened the boiler cover and tossed the papers and pocket into the furnace. “That’s a happy ending in my book,” he said as he watched the evidence burn.


	2. Dear Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit more book Adler than movie Adler, but then as much as I liked this movie I felt her character was a bit wasted.

Dear Sherlock,

You were right.

You can’t imagine how much it pains me to write that down, but know that it pains me less than what I’ve suffered over the last few weeks. I know I shouldn’t be committing any of this story to paper as it could only cause me further harm, but I’ve found myself with ample time on my hands and a need to explain everything to someone who would understand. You, perhaps unsurprisingly, were the first person to come to mind.

You’ll want to know what you were right about first, of course. Back at the auction house you told me that I’d be dead in an hour if I left your side. Our mutual acquaintance did try to kill me, almost succeeded in fact, nearly an hour after I left you holding the parcel I’d been asked to deliver. I tried to take precautions beforehand of course - after all, very few see the “Napoleon of Crime” in person and live. I asked him to meet me in a public place, a restaurant that had I frequented often and to whose ownership and waitstaff I was known. But he had anticipated and prepared for that. Once he discovered that I had not brought the letter he had asked me to retrieve, he cleared the room at a signal, dismissed me from his service, and waited for the poison he’d had put in my tea to do its work. 

Poisoned tea. Is there anything more British?

Luckily the preparations I’d taken extended beyond simply meeting at a place of my choosing. During my period of employment with “the great man,” I have studied his ways. In particular, I have done my best to research his means of killing his associates, those who displeased or failed him. I did this in the hopes of preparing myself for the inevitable day when he sought to destroy me. You are likely surprised to learn that I felt the event was inevitable, but in my experience such men consider all people other than themselves expendable, especially women. “Why work for him at all then?” I can almost hear you say. That is a discussion we have had often enough, so I will not waste more time discussing it here. Let us just say that once caught in the trap I looked for the best way to survive long enough to extricate myself from his influence whenever the opportunity arose. 

In my studies I noticed that many of his employees, both direct and at several degrees distance, died from tuberculous. This was despite the fact that their friends and family all agreed that none of them had exhibited any signs of the illness before the moment when they succumbed. It took me some time to discover the exact combinations of chemicals that would produce that effect and then to discover an antidote; but once I found it, I made sure to carry it on my person at all times. When I tried to leave the restaurant on that November afternoon and felt the first symptoms of the attack, I took the antidote quickly and hid the motion under the pretense of coughing into my handkerchief. To be honest, it was barely a pretense; although I knew the ingredients of the poison and how it acted, I underestimated the swiftness of its efficacy. By the time I had swallow the lifesaving liquid, I was already coughing blood. But I did what must be done and concealed the now empty vial before giving in to the growing weakness of my body and falling to the floor.

He came to stand over me, our vile mutual acquaintance, to watch me die. It was, without a doubt, the most important performance of my life given to the most discerning audience that I will ever face. I have never been more glad of my many years of training in the theater than in that moment and I am still slightly astonished that he bought it. Perhaps he was so sure of the poison’s effectiveness that he did not look as closely as he otherwise might. Or perhaps he was so anticipating the look on your face when he told you of my death that all other details temporarily faded in importance. Regardless, he left me there and I did not die. 

What followed is a bit of a blur. I remember being manhandled by two burly but not all that intelligent men into the basement of the restaurant. The proprietor wanted my body removed and disposed of before the authorities or other customers could hear what had happened. Luckily my two muscular attendants were more interested in squabbling over my money and papers to notice me slipping out the back. From there I somehow made my way to the rooms of an old friend from my life before my marriage. I must have been quite a horrifying sight, but she took me in and hid me. She wanted to summon medical help, but I refused that - there was likely little they could do and I could not trust that anyone she contacted might not secretly be in the employee of our despicable friend. I briefly consider asking her to send for your Dr. Watson, but I feared that both you and he were being observed and that any contact with you would lead to him discovering me. I was determined to avoid the latter at all costs.

And so I’ve spent the last few weeks in convalescence. While I survived the attack, the poison still damaged my throat severely and I have not been able to speak a word since that day. However I can still think and write and read, so I have passed my time doing so and hoping that one day I will heal. 

It was while sitting in my bed reading the morning paper that I learned of your death at Reichenbach, along with that of our late, unlamented acquaintance. I should say your supposed death, since I doubt the truth of the report. Perhaps that is just my own wishful thinking? The world would be such a grey and dismal place without you in it. On the other hand, if you are dead then perhaps so is he and that would mean that I am safe and free, finally truly free. I hardly know which result to hope for.

But for the moment, I will hold on to this letter. If I have not heard definite proof of your survival in a few months I will burn it, for it can hardly be of any good use to anyone other than you. If you do ever see this note, please know that I am already beginning a new life under a new name. It is unlikely that we will ever see each other again, but I wish you only the best. I hope that you wish me the same.

To your health and long life, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, 

Irene Adler


	3. Madame Dupin

Josette Dupin folded the letter she had been reading and hid it safely away. It was a risk bringing it with her on this journey; in fact she should have burned the letter long ago. Her old life had ended almost a year and half ago now and, despite the struggle to regain her health, she was grateful to be rid of the past. Still, there were few mementos that she had difficulty giving up. 

“Madame Dupin?”

She smoothed her dress and gave the attendant her most charming smile. “Yes?”

“Your train has arrived and your coach is ready.” He moved to take her travel bag but she interceded. 

“I prefer to carry this myself,” she said, the huskiness of her voice adding to her general air of demure embarrassment. “You understand?”

“Of course.” He bowed and gestured for her to follow him through the mostly empty station. “Once again, we apologize for the delay and the regrettable confusion. It is the off-season, you understand, and we are a bit short of staff-”

She nodded politely and concentrated on appearing calm and mostly disinterested. “I am just happy to be underway at last.”

“I take it that your husband will be joining you in Venice?”

“Yes. I hope the delay will not inconvenience him.” She paused beside a pair of glass doors to make sure her wig was still in place. She wasn’t sure she fancied herself as a redhead, but as long as it fooled everyone else it served her purposes. In the reflection she spotted movement over her shoulder - a familiar shape loitering behind her at a discrete distance. His suit was impeccable, his hat pushed rakishly over his eyes, and as he leaned against the wall he casually lifted his walking stick in her direction. 

She swiftly shifted the position of her bag and heard more than felt the impact. Without delaying further, she hurried to her carriage and, with a minimum of pleasantries, closed the door behind her. Moments later she felt the train start to move. 

Josette Dupin, previously known as Irene Adler, carefully pulled the poisoned dart from her bag and frowned. Perhaps the past was not as dead as she’d thought? If she’d been lucky, the train had left the station before Colonel Moran could follow her, but she’d learned not to depend on luck. That dratted attendant just had to mention her husband out loud! Her husband who only existed in forged documents in order to allow her to access what wealth remained to her after her discharge from Moriarty’s service. She wondered idly if he was following her for herself or if he thought she was running off to meet Sherlock. Probably the latter, knowing him.

Irene sighed. “Well, nothing for it,” she said quietly to herself. “He will have to be dealt with.” She leaned back against the padded seats and began planning her next move.


End file.
